


Ms. Brie

by Anonymous



Category: Community (TV), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Age Difference, Bathroom Sex, Deepthroating, Embarrassment, F/M, Foot Fetish, Impregnation, Older Woman/Younger Man, Other, Penis Size, Public Sex, RPF, Reality, Rimming, School, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alison takes some time off after the show is cancelled to follow her life's passion: teaching.</p><p>The sex with her students is just a side-benefit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress. More to come.
> 
> Originally written in short segments; the breaks are preserved here to maintain structure.

 

# ...

He definitely notices me. He can see my hand under the desk; he's the only kid at just the right angle for it. All the other kids are watching the video, or messing with their phones. But the one in the back, the one that never pays attention... he's looking at me for the first time. God, why does that turn me on? Why a kid not even half my age? Why is this so hot to me, knowing that he can see my hand pulling up my skirt? Why do I want him so badly?

Why a seventh-grade kid?

This all started so innocently; it was just a substitute teaching gig at a boarding school. When the show was cancelled, I wanted to take a little time off, do something outside of acting for a while, something good and charitable. I had always wanted to teach. This was something fun. But I realized that being the cute teacher of a class full of boys... you weren't just a teacher. You were a sex symbol. And that _excited_ me. God, I wish it hadn't, but it did.

I started wearing lower-cut shirts -- it felt almost innocent back then. "Oh, I'll tease the poor seventh-graders with a little cleavage. Tee hee." Harmless fun. It felt good to be admired, lusted after. I should have felt more ashamed; they were just kids! But it was just for fun, and if I got a little turned on when I noticed them checking me out, that was just... a side effect. If my fantasies started to involve taking a boy to the teacher's lounge and making his dreams come true, it was just fantasy. It was harmless. If I occasionally sucked on the end of a pen while they took tests, and moaned a little bit when I stretched... well, they enjoyed it as much as I did. No one was harmed.

Low-cut shirts and moaning were just the start, though. I started wearing higher skirts. I'd kick my shoes off during class and prop my feet up on the desk. I'd hug students who did something really good; sometimes their hands would wander a little, and I'd wink at them afterwards. Every step seemed like a small liberty at the time; I hardly even noticed how normal it all became. I liked seeing "Ms. Brie is a slut" written on the stalls of the girls' bathroom. I liked making the girls jealous. And if I didn't get at least a few kids hard during the day, I felt disappointed. I know how horrible it sounds, but... by the end of the first semester, I knew who was really hung. And I liked knowing that.

But right now, that seems like the distant past. What I'm doing now... I don't think I can excuse it anymore.

# ...

It doesn't matter how wrong it is. I've lost all sense of shame. A small part of me, distant and almost forgotten, tells me how horrible this is; tells me I shouldn't be so wet for a kid who's just hit double digits; begs me to stop, now, before I do something I can never take back.

That part of me withers away when I see the bulge in his jeans, straining against the denim. I thought I knew who had the biggest cock in this class, but I can see now that I was so, so wrong. Every single emotion, every thought, melts away, replaced with blinding, white-hot need. I can't even think of words anymore; my body continues on its own.

I slide down a little bit in my seat. My skirt rides up to my hips, and he realizes that I don't wear underwear. Oh, that's right, kid. I haven't since the start of the second quarter. Every single time I've bent over? You could have pulled my skirt up and had me exposed and ready. All those times I sat down at my desk, if I uncrossed my legs, you would have been able to see how wet I get for the boys I tease.

He shifts in his seat, tries to hide how hard he's gotten; I close my legs in return. That makes him look at me. I point to the door and mime jerking off. And then I get up from my chair.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, class," I say; if I weren't such a good actress, I don't think I could have possibly hidden my arousal, but none of the other kids notice. I step outside, wait just to the side of the door, and after a few seconds, my hand-picked stud comes out too.

I'm lucky there was no one in the halls to see me kiss him. I don't think I could have gotten away with that.

# ...

Kissing him is beyond words. He squirms, in desire or panic, but I pin his arms against the wall. I don't think he was fully ready for me doing this. I don't even know how much he wants this. I know he has a girlfriend. But I also know she doesn't deserve this kid's cock. She can't possibly appreciate it as much as I do, kid. This cock should be mine.

I break our kiss, check the hallway, my last scrap of shame making me wonder if anyone caught me sexually abusing my eleven-year-old student. The hallway is empty, but for some reason I feel a quick, sharp pang of _disappointment_.

Why couldn't some other boys have been watching? Why couldn't they see me, flushed and panting and desperate, french kissing a kid who hadn't even hit high school yet? Why couldn't they blackmail me for sex, threaten to tell the principal? Why couldn't I take them to the bathroom, pull their pants off, and service them, one by one? Why couldn't they fuck me? Why couldn't I just do what they wanted and I needed?

The fantasy only lasts a second, but it's so vivid that I swear I can almost feel a hard, young cock pushing into me; when I finally snap out of it, I realize that's not far from the truth. I've started unconsciously grinding against my young stallion's throbbing bulge, and without any underwear in the way, the denim of his jeans is sinking into my pussy.

# ...

All it takes is to feel him pushing inside of me, feeling the pulse of his cock just one thin layer of cloth away from where I need it the most. Whatever restraint I had leaves me.   
  
I moan. (Loudly. Too loudly for a teacher just three feet away from her classroom door.) My legs almost buckle. I grind against him, hard, the stiff, thick bulge in his jeans sinking further into me with each thrust, the rough fabric soaking up my wetness. The coarse, abrasive feeling should hurt, but I want more. I pull my skirt up out of the way, pressing my body against his, desperate, wanting, needing, needing, needing.  
  
He tries to say something, but I've pushed his head between my breasts; all that comes out is a mumble. He tries to push me away, weakly; he can't get any leverage against the wall. He twists, squirms, pushes, and then  
  
his hips buck.  
  
just once.  
  
and the button on his jeans strums over my clit.  
  
My vision goes white. I bite down on my hand to stop from screaming, and I grab at my stud's hair, tense, shake, gasp.  
  
I hold him against me, chanting curses under my breath as the last few waves of orgasm sweep through me. He had stopped struggling as I came, and after a few moments, I pry back from him, still shaking. His face is flushed from being forced against my chest. He blinks at me, scared, confused; he says something, distantly. The words never really reach my ears.  
  
I smile down at him, stroking his hair lovingly. There's nothing he can say that matters to me anymore anyway. He's mine now; doesn't he see that? Doesn't he realize? I have fifty seventh-grade boys to pick from. I've chosen him for a _reason_. I've gotten only the faintest, distant taste of fucking him. I'm not going to stop until I've tasted the real thing. And I doubt one time is going to be nearly, nearly enough.  
  
The bathrooms are just across the hall, and I'm grateful for that, or I would have fucked him right there against the wall.

# ...

When we get into the bathroom, I waste only a second to drag the trash can against the door. It's almost like it was designed for this moment; the top of the can rests just against the door handle. No one will be able to turn it; no one will walk in on us. I have him alone, all to myself.

It only takes a second for me to pull my sweater up over my head. Oh, yes, kid, that's right -- there's nothing underneath it. I haven't worn a bra in a month and a half. Every time you've come to the board, you could have pulled my shirt up and exposed me to the whole class as a slut. Do you think I would have punished you? Do you think I would have stopped you? Or do you think I would have kneeled down, smiled, sucked every cock in the room, serviced every pussy, been a fucktoy to every horny preteen in the class?

His eyes are wide, and he's shaking; as I come towards him again, he backs away nervously. That doesn't stop me. I grab his wrist, pull him towards me, then give him a hard shove.

He topples to the ground, his head hitting the tile floor; he cries out, but he doesn't have time to get away before I'm on top of him.

I kiss every inch of skin I can get to. Lips, face, neck. I grip his hair, pull his head aside, bite his neck. I bite hard enough to be sure I'll leave a mark. His hands try to push me aside, but I'm stronger than he is; I overpower him without even thinking about it.

It doesn't take long for me to want more. I feel like I'm on fire; every inch of my body is flushed. I'm soaking wet. I look down at him, see his lips forming words, but I can barely hear them. "Stop," "don't"... meaningless words. But his lips hold my interest. They're beautiful lips. They feel so good to kiss. I wonder what else they can do?

I hold his hands down, pull my skirt up, and position my hips over his face. I smile down at him, my wetness dripping onto his face; he closes his eyes and turns his face aside, trying to avoid what we both need. I turn his head back upward, then settle down onto his face, his lips meeting my labia in a perverse, wonderful kiss.

# ...


	2. Chapter 2

Now, kid... now it's clear how much you want to fuck me. How could you possibly pretend you aren't trying to get me off? You try to turn your head, beg, scream, but everything you do now just brings me closer to the edge. Your twisting and struggling rubs my clit; your words and screams send vibrations coursing through me. Of course you want this. Why else would you be getting me off? If you didn't want this, why would you be making me feel so good?

I ride his face for as long as I can take; my hands grip his head, and I thrust against him, smothering him, my wetness running down his face, soaking into his hair, puddling on the ground beneath us. I thrust my sweater into my mouth and scream into it as his struggles bring me over the edge again and again. My bare legs clench around him as I orgasm; my toes curl from the sheer pleasure.

There's no way for me to be certain of how long I spent like this, abusing him, torturing him. I don’t want to guess. It would cheapen the experience to hang numbers off of it.

I eventually collapse off of him, sweat dripping from every inch of my skin. I resort to rubbing my body on the filthy tile floor to cool down, smearing myself with dirt and dust. I know it's disgusting, but the shame of debasing myself like this is an enticement all its own; soon I am painted with mingled sweat and grime, my face streaked black and brown. I wonder how many boys have masturbated in this bathroom? I wonder how much hot cum has spattered across this floor? I lick the stained grout, just in case; the bitter, foul taste should be overpowering, but I don’t notice. I think surely, surely, I am licking up some ten-year-old boy’s cum. It is all I ever wanted.

The kid is feeling much worse than I am. He coughs, whimpers, gasps for breath. I hadn't let him up for air very much. That was very much intentional. Your panicked attempts to breathe felt so good, kid; I would apologize, but I don't feel sorry. Your suffering is my joy. Your pain is my pleasure. Your abuse is my release.

Even though I'm dazed, some part of me is still aware of how much I need him; when he tries to get up, I push my feet into his face, force him back down. I smother him with my soles, push my toes into his open mouth. He struggles, but I'm stronger, and eventually he starts licking and sucking. (I have a kink for feet, kid. I like to have them worshipped. I’m glad you understand.)

It takes me a minute to recover all the way, but I get a treat for my endurance. Apparently, my little conquest is enjoying my feet, even if they are dirty and sweaty; his jeans are tenting up more than they ever did in class.

I do the only thing I can under the circumstances, and pull his jeans off as fast as I possibly can. The button pops off. The denim tears. He will not be able to wear these again. I am slowly digging my own grave, making it certain we will be caught. I do not care, because his cock springs free, and my mind is entirely focused on it.

I can't believe I waited this long to fuck him. He's hard, thick, long; so perfect, so beautiful. I always dreamed of fucking one of my students, but I always imagined their dicks being average for their age; smaller, less satisfying. They wouldn’t stretch me, wouldn’t make me sore. This dick, though; this dick will make me fucking feel it. He's going to be painfully large when he's older, even for a size queen like me, but right now, at 11, he's amazing. See how nice I am to you, kid? If I waited until you were legal, this would never have been so good.

I pull my feet away from his face, straddle him. He starts to try to say something, shout, but my hand goes over his mouth. I can’t have him making noise. I won’t risk it. He will be taken, he will be mine, he will thrust his cock into me and make me come all over him, and he will fill me with his seed, his young cock pumping his fertile load deep inside of me, unprotected and unsafe. Then I will be satisfied. Then he can cry, scream, beg, plead. I can be caught. I can be taken away from him. But not before I claim him. Not before he fills me. Not before I get what I have been pining for longer than I ever realized.

My skirt is already clear of my hips, and I leave it on. Even when I was wearing it, it was barely long enough to cover my holes. I chose it to advertise myself: I am a slut for every middle-school boy who wants to fill me with their seed. Now it will live up to its purpose. I am beyond happy.

I sink down to him, my wetness meeting the heat of his dick; I almost cry from the sensation. He is so hard; so ready. He wants me. His underage cock is rubbing against my clit, sending powerful waves of pleasure through me with every beat of his heart. He's right at my entrance, paused like he's waiting for permission.

We lock eyes.

My clothes are all pulled aside, breasts heaving as I desperately suck down air, ass and cunt exposed to the world, face flushed, sweaty, smeared in dirt from the floor mixed with my own juices. I have no doubt I must look insane, sex-crazed; for, of course, I am.

He's soaked in my cum, shirt torn up (I can't remember doing that, but I must have), jeans gone (replaced by a pile of denim in the corner). He looks desperate, terrified. He wants me to stop. I know it, at that moment; I feel the full impact of what I’m doing. I know the crime I’m committing. I know the pain I’m causing.

I push down on him.

He sinks into me, slowly, stretching me, agony and pleasure intertwining.

He comes almost immediately.

I don’t know what religion must be like, but feeling his eleven-year-old seed filling my womb feels like an epiphany. His hot, fertile semen soaks into me. His cock bucks and throbs inside me; I can feel his cum pumping through his dick, a near-continuous stream. This, I know, will make me pregnant. My poor, delirious charge has claimed my body as his own. I am giddy.

I know — I can see, hear, feel — that this is is first time, his first orgasm, his first sexual experience at all. He is bewildered; he does not realize the joy he has brought me. He gasps and trembles at the sensation of his climax; he is buried to the hilt in a woman almost three times his age, her pussy lips gripping him, milking every last drop from him. It must be exquisite for him. He will thank me later, I think.

After that… I think I lose track of things.

I remember snippets of the next fifteen minutes. I remember pushing his face back between my legs, making him eat his cum out of me; I remember rubbing it all over his face, brought to another orgasm by his tongue working through his own seed.

I remember rimming him — I couldn’t help myself, I just had to — feeling his balls press against my face, jacking him off while my tongue caressed him — until another beautiful, blessed jet of cum started pumping from his cock, and I sealed my lips around it, fucked him with my throat until his cum filled my stomach.

And then… I remember… waking up. I remember the world suddenly coming back into existence, as if I had just walked into the middle of a movie.

He is in a corner, covered in his cum, my cum, dirt, sweat. He is naked; his clothes are completely shredded.

I am in much the same state; what little clothing I had to start with is soaked in our fluids. I must have gagged him at some point, for my shirt ripped, and half of it is crammed into his mouth.

I am exhausted beyond words, but somehow in a way that is beatific; I am sated. I feel like I have finally found peace.

It is then I realize I, Alison Brie, celebrity, teacher, have raped a seventh-grade boy, and I panic.


	3. Intermission

It took me until the school day ended to stop shaking; it started again the instant I got home.

What I did wasn't just casually illegal. It would be one thing if I were a college teacher; they can have sex with a student and not get in too much trouble. It would be fine for me to seduce some freshman boy, drag him out of class, and fuck his brains out in a bathroom. That would be almost pedestrian. 

(I've done exactly that -- well, I wasn't a teacher, but my body was pretty much public property in college.)

This, though... I don't think screwing a preteen boy, a middle-school student, an eleven-year-old, is ever welcomed. I don't think showing him your breasts is considered acceptable. I don't think fucking his face until he's soaked in your cum is okay. I don't think riding his thick, throbbing, underage cock until he pumps load after _load_ of his fertile seed directly into your womb — 

God, I can't even think of how wrong it was without it turning me on. I can't even contemplate the gravity of what I did without thinking of how it felt to have him explode inside me. Every time I try to feel bad, all I can think about was how I still had his cum inside of me, how I had unprotected, amazing sex with a preteen, how I was a cheap fucktoy for a kid young enough that I could be his mother, and I would be on the brink of orgasm, just like that.

That's the worst part of all this; I know it wasn't just that he was too young. I know I forced him into it. He didn't want what I did; everything we did was something he will regret, if he doesn't already. He didn't want to lose his virginity at 11, to a woman three times his age, on the floor of a bathroom. He didn't want to give me head while I rode his face. He didn’t want to impregnate a girl who abused him. God, even the word — abused. He was abused. I raped him. And that — the fact that I never gave him a choice, that I did something he can never undo -- that's the part that's turning me on the most. I savor it. I chant the words under my breath — I raped him, I _raped_ him — until it becomes a mantra. I have masturbated more times today than I ever have before in my life.

When I lick my fingers clean, they taste like him.

* * *

I wasn’t arrested the next morning. Or the next. It’s been three weeks, and I’m still teaching, still unaccused. I’ve fucked an eleven-year-old boy with a delicious, amazing dick, and I’ve gotten away with it.

I don’t know how everyone missed the signs of what happened. Sure, this is a boarding school, and he doesn't have parents looking after him, but someone must have seen _something_. He skipped my class the next day, but he was still there. I saw him. I’m surprised he didn’t tell someone what happened, or brag about it to the other boys. (It’s not like they wouldn’t kill to be in his place.)

I know he can’t accept what happened right away; unlike me, he doesn’t realize how much he wants this. He needs time to figure it out, sure, but it can’t be long before he wants me. I’ve gotten other kids hard for me with nothing more than a glance and a wink.

But, again: it’s been three weeks. I can’t wait forever. I am dying without his huge fucking dick inside me, and nothing else is good enough. Every time I catch a glimpse of him in the halls, I burn for him. I remember the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of me, its heat, its firmness; unprotected, bareback, mine.

And so I begin to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> For /gif/, with love, from cr9.


End file.
